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Nyarlathotep

The Unutterable

0 · 1,072 views · located in The Ruins

a character in “The Multiverse”, originally authored by Tearen Wover, as played by RolePlayGateway

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The VARIAtech Consulate is an enigmatic entity that is from some place outside of known space. They function both as a company and a sovereign nation, meddling with mundane affairs of the Multiverse from behind the scenes for an unknown purpose...
Under the guise of the old Master, Nealaphh leads these enterprising souls on the path to true power in the hopes of preventing the collapse the Multiverse...

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Image


I'm reading you.

So begins...

Nyarlathotep's Story

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Nyarlathotep was watching the bar...




...uh oh.

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Here, in the late hours of the morning when the lights were dim and the dust glittered drearily in the light of the bar's windows, the fluttering darkness that ebbed in long shadows was more alive than at any other times. Gambit's bar had a habit of drawing in the attention of dark and unutterable evils that peered in at the mortal world with sadistic eyes, and so it was that Nyarlathotep, The Crawling Chaos, had taken root in Gambit's bar like an awful disease, plying at the edges of the minds that wandered in, chiding the self-righteous and insignificant anomalies that pretended they were Gods. Such a stark, beautiful silence it was this morning, when the air was still damp from the evening's rain and crows cackled incessantly amidst their squabbles over the dead and rotting bounty of Wing City.

The shadows and unseen space in the darkness behind the unlit bar was banished as gentle halogen lights lurched into life, searing any real permeating gloom in the bar. But still, the God persisted, his presence heavy on the back of one's neck or the squirm of one's innards. Yes, he would surely have some fun today...

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And so the grand act began, as the daily grind of epiphany and hatred spun into action within the bar. Some may have thought the Crawling Chaos as, perhaps, the active puppet master of such a stage, but it was not his nature to lead the ignorant to ruin by his own hand. It was, rather, Nyarlathotep's way to play at weaknesses of others, tempt them into ruin, and allow such foolhardy souls to destroy themselves through their own ignorance in matters which they surely thought they were elite. Succulent morsels, glimmering junctures of thought and reason winked one by one into his new domain. Each had a story, and each was easily as interesting as the last. The mad god would tickle and pinch at the minds of these newcomers, attempting to probe their sensitive minds and sate his gluttonous sense of curiosity. A stray cat wandered in from the back room, tawny and fat with an imminent litter, mewling softly as she lurched her way onto the counter top, coyly playing her tail under the chins of the patrons. This too was Nyarlathotep, made manifest into the world of sacred life, a world where people wish he didn't belong but to which he was an integral part

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The tawny cat rolled over onto her back on the counter top, basking in a patch of sun despite the piercing shriek issued by Kat, purring softly to herself as a feline's smile spread slowly across her face. Somewhere in the bar, a cricket was chirping in perfect harmony with the numbers on the digital clock as they slowly counted through the day. The unutterable influence that permeated the bar was growing as the amount of people in the bar grew, growing bloated off of their assorted miseries and tiny aches. A fluttering breeze wound its way through the bar, carrying the most faint of whispers that giggled insane nonsense as it flickered past, slipping out through a now cracked window into the bustling city beyond. The cricket continued to chirp, the cat continued to purr loudly, and an unbearable sense of tension and stress would begin to build in the bar, anxiety welling up in the throats of unguarded minds, coaxing them into restless ness and prodding them into a perhaps flagrant outburst of impatience against the universe itself...

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"Something the matter?" the cat asked, looking at the siren from an upside down with that ever-coy look of feline smugness on her face. Her tail flicked back and forth in time with the cricket, who was still merrily chirping away. It was not a pleasant, soft voice with which the soon-to-be mother cat spoke. It was a dusky, shuddering voice, all at once dry and endless in its depth. It was more of a noise really, than a voice with which the cat spoke, like a chainsaw being dragged along a chalkboard, enough to send anyone's hair on end.

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"Good luck with that..." the cat mewled, springing off into the closet with a large, graceful leap. Still, the cricket remained, and the chirping would follow Kat wherever she went, in perfect time with the rotations of the universe. Chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp...

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Content with the paradox of reality that Kat was facing, the incomprehensible deity turned his attention upon the now limp frame of Chise Umeno, eager to ply her secrets from her mind while it was vulnerable. Like a snake wriggling its way into a rabbit's den Nyarathotep would attempt to plunge into the young woman's mind, tugging at her secrets and scrutinizing her values. The dreaded chirping of the cricket would intensify and grow sour as he attempted to do this, the light in the room taking on a tinge of the ultraviolet. For wherever the influence of the Crawling Chaos went, a shadow of uncertainty and peril was never far behind.

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And so did Nyarlathotep pull from the vampiress' mind in the manner one might pull a dagger from a lifeless back, thinking to himself in all his infinity on the sights, sounds, and smells he had gleaned from the undead woman's mind. Creatures of the night, servants of chaos and pain, Vampires served him inhrently, even if they chose not to, just in the same manner as anyone else who voluntarily walked into the darkness, out of the pale, fleeting light. Wing City was full of such darkness, and this Gambit's Bar, no matter who might have come or gone, was the inkiest and most tenebrous of them all. Happy with his newly infested environs, this mere fragment of the unknowable deity's consious screamed across all that was, is, and will be to summon the overwhelming might of his full wrath, leaving behind the Earth of old and sending a great call to the old ones and the wretched outer gods to come upon this ripe new land of chaos and frenzy.

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nullThe darkness again reared it stark and unhallowed head, unseen yet felt, to settle its pestilent gaze upon the artistic, endeavoring form of Ilyana Maric. The air in the bar would grow heavy with exercised will as the wicked Nyarlathotep caught wind of her dedicated craft, collecting the visages of pain, pleasure, torment, and jubilance where she herself could show none of these, left alone from her wanderings in the stark hell that was the waking world. And so Nyarlathotep would snarl and titter madly to himself from the space just outside of known, good things, and home in on the woman's psyche, making moves for encouraging her, prodding her motivations, and attempting to drive her art to strange and oscene obsession. Pictures, pictures. Take more pictures. Covet them, crave them! In them you are made immortal in your own right!

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And then something would shift. An imperceptible rumble in the pits of one's stomach, a distant sense of paranoia looming at the threshold of one's conscious. The patrons of the bar were being scrutinized, weight, and especially, laughed at. The Crawling Chaos loved his bar, having made it his choicest teat to suck misery and foolishness from. And on this particular eve of anguish and universal contempt, His dark attention was drawn to the faltering beacon of evil that was Zypher Kanakirgoe, one of the simpering servants of one of Terra's milder Gods. Her mind was rife with sorrow, and her form was sandy and crippled with fatigue and pain. Delicious. Sumptuous. Tempted as he was by such things, the tendrils of Nyarlathotep's words would try and snake themselves into the demoness's mind, tittering and whispering at the edges of her perception, begging her softly for attention. Somewhere, a cricket would begin to chirp in perfect, accurate rhythm with time itself.

Zephyr...Zephyr! You do not deserve such condemnation from the world! Your Potential! Your happiness! You were never given a chance, and now you shall give it up so easily. I can help you achieve your happiness, the happiness you deserve, but you must heed my words carefully and submit to my assistance. Lo, as in the wicked manner in which you have been struck, you shall eventually strike back! But you must give in to yourself first. Concede defeat to these bumbling fools, Zephyr and die...but just for now, so that you may rise again as an incarnate of your own will. This is all I offer, Zephyr, but you must act on your vindication now!

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Nyarlathotep [color=navy]chuckled in a haunting manner to himself, looking upon the shattered remains of the human instrument with mild disdain from the fold between all things that were known and good in the world. Quaint, limited, rubbish. Human's had no more concept of true music than did a flea have a concept of the great jump Zyleraks that hail from the dark cliffs of H'nuge. But, it was a simple request from a dying, foolish demon, and Nyarlathotep, in all his great and twisted sense of sadism, found it only fitting that he dispensed this singular favor to her. And so, with maddening gibbers and silent chirps, hundreds and hundreds of crickets would bleed from every crevice in the bar, skittering and glittering with dark intent as the hopped, crawled and buzzed towards the noble, festering remains of that once beautiful implement of music. The swarm would wrap itself around the guitar, pull it together and begin to bleed into the hull of the body, stretch itself into strings, and emit small bursts of smoke as one by one they died with a single shrieking chirp.

And while Nyarlathoteps nefarious minions went about their mindless, tittering task, the dark one would reach into that stark and tenebrous void wherein sat the destitute soul of Zypher sat sniffling to herself. A hooded and shadowed figure would approach, his smile unseen but felt as he beamed upon the delicate whisp of conscious. An outstretched, black velvet gloved hand would be offered to Zypher, while warm words would be cooed to her as if she was merely asleep amidst a dreary lullaby.

Come with me, child. Come back to the world and your beloved guitar. It waits for your, yearns for your fingers, and demands your stewardship. You died from the pain of its destruction, now live by joy of its return! Take my hand, and I will show you the way...

However, Nyarlathotep, always nefarious and evil in his promises, had not intention to plant the demoness's soul back into her shriveled and useless bo

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...useless body, no. The dark, plotting Nyarlathotep planned singularly to return her soul to that body that she loved most, the noble guitar which now hummed with twisted intent and strange, dark energies. All at once impervious to destruction by mundane means, but helpless as a tool in the hands of others. When it sang, elegant chords ringing out, her voice would be there, singing in the spaces between the melody where only those listening for her would hear.

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A sneer was felt from under the black hood, and the dark figure mad a move to snatch Zypher's soul by the throat, lifting her up like a sack of potatoes. Unseen eyes bored into her own, and the maddening sound of distant eternal howling would be heard amidst the strains of dangerously close slavering. The warm voice would take on a much different timbre, now shrieking and warbling like some furious river during a flood.

You rebuke my grace, Zephyr! Perhaps you do not understand...I have fixed your precious guitar, now I demand you return to this so called Sebastian to pay my work homage. Come with me, or I shall submit your human tool to a far worse and miserable fate than mere destruction.

To emphasize his mountainous will, Nyarlathotep would attempt to wrack the sobbing soul of the demoness with a world of pain, as if white hot needles were crawling out from inside her very body, piercing her outwards from every inch of her incorporeal form.

Come with me. Come with me. Come with me. Come with me. The Crawling Chaos would scream this into her soul endlessly until she submitted, demanding her respect and penance for indignance.

The setting changes from gambits-bar to Altar Room

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A profound sense of wrongness would stir within the room as an ultraviolet hue would cast over the twilight...

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Nyarlathotep released a deep snarl as he tossed the demon's soul onto the gritty floor of the altar, a nexus between time and space, where all things could potentially be here and now. The Crawling Chaos looked upon the pathetic soul with mild disdain. With a shadowy echoing chant, he called the perfect, spotless form of the guitar to his hands.

...

The hooded form drew back its shroud revealing a dark skinned face, with sharp features akin to Egypt's pharaohs.

...You have insulted me and rebuked my favor, Zypher. Such matters do not please me, the Crawling Chaos, Nyarlathotep. But my pity is boundless, unlike my patience. Either accept my gift to you or lament in isolation knowing that your precious Sebastian will remain naught but dust.

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A sheer shockwave of malevolence would attempt drive the demon girl back across the room, sending her careening hard into the ancient wall covered in bloody inscriptions. Somewhere, the sound of distant gibbering madness could be heard, clawing at the edges of Zephyr's conscious and threatening to swallow her whole. Nyarlathotep would coast across the floor, touching nothing but air as he whispered closer to her, bending down to glare in her face with eyes that have seen eons. Gripping the guitar Sebastian tightly, Nyarlathotep would continue to twist his mouth into hideous forms which uttered blasphemous words. Small, glowing portents and glyphs would illuminate on the body of the guitar, shimmering in ultraviolet evil as they traced their way all the way from tip to tip. The crawling voice issued forth again, angry yet patient.

Your love for this piece of human design goes beyond all reason, Zephyr, and for that, I can only respect you. Your weakness sickens me, yet your inherent madness pleases me, so I shall make an appeal to each...from this day forward, you shall bear this guitar, blessed by Nyarlathotep, he whose name causes the strong to shudder, as my standard bearer across the cosmos. Its songs shall inspire pain and madness, and you yourself will respect no God, not your petty Satan, nor your worthless Holy Trinity, but me and those for whom I stand. Do you accept, Zypher Kanakirigoe?

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The distant screaming would reach an abysmal crescendo as Nyarlathotep, he who travels between spheres and speaks as the will of those blind idiot Gods beyond known realms, handed the Guitar Sebastian towards the cowering form of Zypher. He would wait for her to take it, to wrap her frail and delicate hands around the instrument that glowed with unnatural power. The moment she did, a burst of ultraviolet light would blossom from her soul, transfiguring the incorporeal ghost of herself into a solid form, but altered to please the eye of her new master. Glyphs, undecipherable and inherently unnerving to the eye, would trace their way up her arms, around her face and down her body, marking her as a follower of the Crawling Chaos. As this happened, a dark strap would manifest from either end of the guitar and lace itself around her body, which would initially explode with a searing pain as her soul was pulled into the world of the living. Nyarlathotep pulled back from the woman, issuing a horrible, piercing scream of worship towards the God Azathoth, whose name no man dare speak aloud. He spoke now, head uplifted and arms risen in greeting to his new disciple.

Zypher Kanakirigoe, that was your given name from your inception at the hands of Satan. You now serve far greater, far more profound forces that demand a secret title that only you and our ilk may know. Your new name shall be Ky'lio Bal Vega, a follower of the Pale Star. Though your body may hold all its demonic resiliences native to your ilk, you precious, beloved guitar, Sebestian, shall never weather, crack, nor crumble so long as my will is manifest. If, however, the guitar should leave your grasp, both of you will crumble into dust to be trod upon by the next soul I deem worthy to follow my commands. Th'kaolin nru hesath meh n'rar! It is done!

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Nyarlathotep would then raise his hand again, and would exercise his will to pull Zypher into the air, high above his manifested head as unseen, terrible things threatened to tear, rip, kiss, splash, scream and fall to pieces all around her. There were her new brothers and sisters, the unknown terrible horrors that one may see out of the corner of their eyes, or hear shifting things about in the dead of night. All at once, a twist would occur, and the dread Nyarlathotep would send Zypher spiraling through the blackness back from whence she had come. Back, back through the howling night, through the screaming air into the heart of the hungry, evil Wing City, and as she flew, the Crawling Chaos's words would travel with her.

Seek out the Enigmas, dedicated acolytes to the order of all things, specifically the arch abomination known only as Nealaphh. No matter what he tells you, he is your subordinate, and beholden to you and I alone. It is, however pertinent that you come to understand the true nature of things and expunge the false dogma of the human faiths from your soul. I would teach you such things, but a critical hour of the cosmos approaches, and hoary Nodens seeks to stand against Ia! Shub Niggurath! and shall doubtlessly scatter his damned violet mist across the lands of dream wherein lie our citadel of Kadath. Such things are beyond your scope at this juncture, but in time you shall come to see these wonders. In parting, I ask that you do not seek to find me in any of my other forms, and allow this one only to approach you, for fear I shall lose you to desperate lunacies. Farewell Ky'lio, and revel in your knew, true, blessings!

The setting changes from altar-room to Twisted Path

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The birds in the forest would gradually go silent as a dark fog began to well up from behind the trees, ebbing and flowing around those brave souls who dared tread these deep woods. All the beasts and fantastic creatures of the forest paled in danger, however, to the entity who had taken up residence within the area. A probing, dark conscience who desired to see his will made manifest. Phantasmal whispers and the distant sound of shrieking flutes would tug at the edge of one's strained ears, all at once terribly audible and ghostly in their subtleties. And in the midst of this creeping corruption, the sound of thunderous feet stalking the mist would ebb forth, not far off and trudging closer with every groaning thud...

The setting changes from twisted-path to Gambit's Bar

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The lights in the bar would flicker ever so slightly as a new being stepped into the bar, softly, on four padded paws. A mangy looking tabby cat, heavy set and bloated with an imminent litter, glided softly into the bar, purring curiously at everyone around her. With a small mew, she leaped up onto the bar counter, her tail playing coyly across the chins and faces of those seated there, before settling at the far left end in a lavish display of relaxation. Somewhere, a cricket began to chirp loudly and monotonously. But if one listened closely, they swear they could make some kind of arcane, bewitching song out of the chirps.

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Another cricket joined in the frenetic cries of the first, creating an undulating music of blasphemous pitch and timing. A distant scream would seem to ricochet off the edges of one's conscious mind as a voice, both implicit in its presence yet implacable in its origin would wrack the room with its terrible shriek.

So it seems that I am met with the usual degree of reverent disgust...

the voice said, changing its pitch to a deeper tone,

Of all the pretensions that are carried through this bar, however, I am appalled by the audacity of such a committed yet impotent god before us all who feels the need to commit to such needless discretion. Come now, Fate. Why not manifest your true nature if not...oh...but perhaps you are too ashamed of your place in the overall turning of the spheres, hm?

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Jack Spades indeed had drawn the attention of a very interesting customer, however briefly. The man's trade was intriguing; the utilization of ornate ruses and educated guessing that perhaps far too many humans had fallen for. But perhaps they knew they had fallen for a sham, and were merely content with being amused. Such seemed to be the only active pursuit of life in sentient society. But then came this being, a corrupter from afar, who reeked of greed and hunger. Such beings naturally gave worship to his own vile ways, their praise implicit in their insane, wicked actions. So the Crawling Chaos would allow the gambler and the crow to find their own gloom in company of one another; his attention was invested elsewhere at the moment. The mind threw itself at the older vampire man, churlishly laying hands upon his mortal weapons. The pregnant feline jumped from the counter with a small squeak, and padded towards Uriel softly, as the voice came to the vampire.

Your distinction and your dedication to foul secrets owes itself to the knowledge of my presence, but if you know who I am, then why bother equipping yourself with such fragile means of defense? Is my presence so implicitly threatening? Do you believe yourself able to confront a true god? And yet here approaches Fate again, ready to lay his presence upon you. Such audacity. You are not a tool to fate, are you, vampire? Act now, however you see fit, and let us see your true resolve.

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Trick? Tempt? No, my dear demi-god. I merely seek to maintain he maintains his perspective on matters that dictate his existence. Who are you to speak for him? If you cannot control his actions, then why should he be beholden to your patronization? I would recommend getting a grip of your own destiny before assuming guardianship of those around you. Fate...such a naive concept.

With this, the cat would evaporate into a thick, heady mist that would spread along the ground, a dark grey veil of vapor that licked and kissed the ankles of one's feet as it glided softly towards Kro. The dread god could taste the air of painful anticipation and desire flooding from the cosmic horror, and relished the sense of malevolence native only to the most despicable of minds. Perhaps the God of Fate chose not to control others, but a god does not fear retaliation from those vulnerable to their suggestions. Whispers would come to kro, as Nyarlathotep went about bestowing dark blessings of fortitude and protection on the abomination.

Even as the dread god whispered these things, he cackled to himself. Lucien Lachance. If ever a god had hopes of legitimately impressing him, that violet horror, forged only through his own will, would do.

Tear, devour, corrupt. Slaver at the power I bestow upon you and your beautiful, foul soul. Such a being of pure desire, true to itself and willing to bend the world to his will is only deserving of my patronage.

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The sound of distant howling and a tickle at the base of one's spine was all the warning the patrons of the bar that night would get as Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, sagged into the bar from the effervescent fabric between space and time. The presence of his mind was like a thick, cold blanket draped over one's entire being, a dark, malevolent scrutiny that threatened to drag you screaming into paranoid madness. Somewhere, a cricket started chirping monotonously, a lone herald to the inexorable advance of entropy.

The reasons for the dread God's presence this sanguine evening were terrible and unknowable, let alone compatible with good, sane ways of sentient thought. The only communication he would make for those who dared reach out to his mind was "Six Five Three Three..."

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A voice would come to Xvander, implicit in its presence and demure in its stature. A raspy whisper that one might have to crane their hearing to pick up, right at the edge of detectable thought.

Oh my. But it would seem that one thrashing soul might try and rebuke my omnipotent presence. How...inspiring. I can taste the hunger and lust for power within your stature, the way your tarnished mind reverberates throughout this epicenter of malevolence and suspicion. Wait for a moment, so that I may manifest in relaxation...

With those words, a dusty wind would blow through the bar, carrying motes of dead matter and cobwebs. The various detritus of the bar would rattle and slither together, forming a small mound on a bench next to Xvander, forming a black skinned man enrobed with a simplistic black cloak. Cloven hooves clicked on the concrete underneath.

"There..." he said, his voice baritone and unsettling, "...come." the Black Man said. A robotic server whirred over next to him, and without orders or instruction, poured the avatar a thick, cyan colored drink. "It is natural for anything wrought by human hands to fall into disarray, to lose its integrity and structure, gradually rotting into obscurity. It is the way of the Daemon Sultan, and impossible to resist..."